Chapter 42 – Sherlock Holmes, Put Your Trousers On

"I'm sorry I left you like I did," Rose said after they'd walked in a comfortable silence a few metres along the avenue in front of the bed and breakfast. "But I did mean what I said," she added, hugging into his arm. "I didn't want to see you before the wedding, but quite pathetically, I had to see you the minute you'd finished."

Sherlock stopped and turned to face Rose. Should he take his default position of assuming he was in the wrong when it came to the emotional side of relationships—the stance he used to take with John Watson? John would get angry with Sherlock's lack of empathy, then the detective would become defensive and bluntly inform John that there was no room for sentiment when he was working on a case—a notion he still agreed with.

But this wasn't a case. This was a relationship, a partnership, based on emotion. Two people who... loved each other. It was new to him, and there was a good chance he was going to get it wrong on occasion.

"No, don't be sorry," he said. Admit to being at fault, he told himself. He was doing that a lot these days. "I'm the one who behaved appallingly." He reached out and lightly held Rose's arms. His eyes were huge and round, his mouth down-turned. Contrition. "And for my penance, I told a roomful of people that I was a rude, arrogant, obnoxious arsehole."

A smile grew on Rose's face as she gazed up at the detective.

"Not a high-functioning sociopath?"

Sherlock's heart twinged. Now Rose was in on the joke, the farcical label assigned to him at university, his get-out-of-jail-free card for acting like an arsehole. Most people took that explanation at face value, when all he wanted to say was that he had an intolerance to idiots.

"No, not this time," he replied, his expression softening.

"So you used my speech?"

"Most of it," Sherlock replied, deciding to skip giving Rose the details of his additional remarks. "Yours was Part One. Part Two was off-the-cuff and a tad more interactive."

"Oh!" Rose exclaimed, her eyes widening in alarm. "You're not supposed to—"

"—milk a good speech, yes, I know. It wasn't quite like that. But let's keep walking." Sherlock turned to the path once more. "We should put some distance between us and the rabble."

"That bad, huh?" Rose asked.

"No, quite the opposite, in fact."

Sherlock automatically linked his fingers into Rose's as they strolled along. On reflection, it felt like a natural and comfortable thing to do.

Sherlock told Rose all about the attempted murder of John's former army commander, Major James Sholto, and how it related back to the Mayfly Man case.

When Sherlock had finished his narrative, ending with the final detail of handcuffing Jonathan Small to the luggage cart, Rose remarked, "When you started this story, I actually thought you were joking." They stopped walking as they reached the tiny laneway in front of the grounds. "After all the research you did about someone at the wedding potentially harming John, are you serious? Did this actually happen?"

"Of course it did, although the groom wasn't the intended target. Imagine all the possible combinations and permutations if I had determined from the outset that one person attending the wedding was plotting to murder another. In the end, all I did was solve the case of the Mayfly Man."

Rose was lost for words, and the pair continued walking away from the reception venue, plunging into the semi-darkness of the country lane lit only by the twin lampposts at the end of the driveway. Sherlock assumed that Rose was absorbing everything he had told her, and her next remark was going to be about how brilliant he was at connecting the dots of the previously unsolved case.

Instead, she stopped and turned to face him, her features only just distinguishable in the half-light. Rose's mouth curved into a smile and she raised an eyebrow, before asking Sherlock, "And how did you happen to have a pair of handcuffs on you?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. Was this obsession with handcuffs typical of someone who had worked in the sex industry, or of someone like Janine Hawkins, who was forever searching for a shag? Was the use of handcuffs as it related to having sex much more common than he thought?

And now he was going to have to admit to Rose that he had been intrigued by the idea. The detective was all about research and experimentation after all. Did he have to spell it out?

"Well, yes, they were yours. I took them from your flat. I forgot they were in my coat pocket when I left for the wedding this morning."

Rose chuckled lightly at Sherlock's embarrassed confession.

"So, where are they now?" she asked.

"I think the D.I. may have them. I assume they were removed from Mr Small once they arrived at Newbury Police station."

"And the other set?"

Sherlock frowned at Rose's question. "Other set?"

"There were two pairs in my drawer. Did you only take the one?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Rose. "Why would you have two?" He couldn't see how someone who had their wrists handcuffed together and... presumably their feet... could possibly have sex comfortably with a partner. How was that logistically possible? Or did both participants each have their hands cuffed? Now that was getting ridiculous.

Sherlock saw a wicked glint in Rose's eyes before she moved closer to him until their bodies touched.

Twining her arms around the detective's neck, Rose whispered, "First I handcuff each of your wrists to a bedpost..."

"Oh."

This scenario sounded familiar to Sherlock. There was a file in his crime database stored in his Mind Palace about bizarre crimes of a sexual nature. Bondage and something. It wasn't alarming by any stretch of the imagination, just different. And now Rose had that look in her eye that told Sherlock she was full of purpose. Curious, he bent his head, feeling Rose's warm breath on his cheek. He brought a hand up to hold her lightly at the small of her back.

"And then I strip you naked..."

Rose raised herself on her toes so she could speak directly into Sherlock's ear, with her body molding more intimately to his.

"...and then have my way with you."

Sherlock's central nervous system slowly drizzled desire into his core. Rose lightly nipped Sherlock's ear. His heart thudded in unison to hers as her mouth grazed his jawline before nibbling at the tender place where his pulse raced beneath his skin.

"You won't be able to touch me..."

She drew back until her mouth hovered beneath his, and she lightly brushed his lips with hers.

"But I'll do unspeakable things to you..."

With her lips, Rose traced a path along Sherlock's neck until she could whisper into his other ear.

"...or do nothing at all."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, picturing that sequence of events, while breathing in Rose's apple-pear shampoo and carefully noting the heat pooling in his trousers and radiating outwards.

When Rose drew back to gauge his reaction, Sherlock had blinked several times to recompose himself.

Dropping his head and speaking directly into Rose's ear, he rumbled, "And just how would you remove my shirt over my arms when my wrists are handcuffed to the bed?"


Sherlock was absolutely correct. The enormous blanket of clouds that had completely obscured the stars was just starting to clear. Rose could see that the pockets of inky blackness, dotted with pinpoints of light, were growing larger. The detective had estimated, upon gauging the approximate speed of the light breeze that intermittently cooled their cheeks and ruffled their hair, that the sky would begin to clear in approximately forty-five minutes.

"Are you warm enough?" Sherlock asked, as he threaded his fingers through Rose's hair.

"Mmm," Rose replied, nestling more comfortably into Sherlock's chest. "Are you?"

"Ah... nope."

"Sherlock."

"I already told you, it's only going to get colder. It's currently eleven degrees, Rose. By 4am, the temperature will reach its minimum of six."

"But this is romantic," Rose sighed.

"I wasn't agreeing to romance. I thought you wanted a place to have a quick snog."

A small laugh escaped Rose. She imagined that Sherlock thought that romance was a separate entity. Didn't he know that it was a series of gestures, emotions and situations in which they had found themselves on many occasions? Big Ben on New Year's Eve, the candlelit bathroom in his flat, teaching her to waltz in his living room, seeking her out in the strip club during John's Stag Night. The list went on and on. Rose had never in her life been romanced more than she had been during the last six months with Sherlock Holmes.

"At least you promised me stars," she said, gazing wistfully at the sky overhead.

"And there they are. Can we go now?"

Rose sighed, and rearranged herself so that she was now lying flat on her back next to Sherlock, instead of cuddling into his side.

"Just half an hour more? We never get to do this in London."

"So you keep saying. Did I tell you about the leaning tomb at Hampstead Cemetery?"

Rose laughed again. She knew there was only so much crisp country air Sherlock could take. The last time they had the opportunity to spend outdoors together—semi-outdoors—was on New Year's Eve, and even then it was from the spectacular vantage point atop the bell tower in the middle of Westminster. So really, this was quite a novelty.

As they had strolled along the dark country lane, hand in hand, it had struck Rose that being outside with a very affectionate Sherlock Holmes was something she never got to do in London. Sherlock had been leading them the five hundred metres or so toward the B&B—quite purposefully after her little introduction into the use of handcuffs—but Rose had hinted that there was an empty field through the hedgerow. Sherlock had said that there was no way he was going to get his kit off in the middle of a field, in this temperature, and Rose assured him that that was not what she was thinking of.

She just wanted to lie down in the meadow, staring up at the stars with Sherlock, just the two of them, nobody else about, no sounds of London, and no prying eyes.

Sherlock had tutted and scoffed, but still held up the top wire of the fencing so Rose could climb through. He had taken off his coat and spread it out on the grass for them both to lie on.

Sherlock exhaled noisily.

"At least come back and lie next to me," he said petulantly. "You were providing me with a little warmth."

Rose shuffled back over to Sherlock, where the detective held her close, and folded one arm behind his head.

"So this Jonathon Small," Rose began, "... is he related to Tonya, do you think?"

"The thought had occurred—two psychopaths in the one family—but no. The name Small is as common as Little."

Silence descended on the couple and Rose turned her head so she could gaze up into the heavens once more while Sherlock gently caressed her back.

"Ooh, there's a lot now," she remarked after a fashion. "What's that group called?" She pointed skyward, to a large hole in the clouds where a cluster of stars twinkled brightly.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied disinterestedly.

Rose lifted her body, and twisted around to meet Sherlock's eyes, as difficult as it was to make out his features in the dark.

"I thought you knew a lot about everything."

"Not if it isn't relevant to a case. People fill their heads with irrelevant nonsense. How would the knowledge of an arrangement of stars called Sagittarius Rising or Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men have any relevance in the real world?"

Or know that the Van Buren Supernova was only sighted in 1858, he thought ruefully, reflecting on the taunting game James Moriarty had played with him a lifetime ago.

Rose chuckled, then leant forward to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips. The cold weather was turning him into a grump, she thought with great affection.

Sherlock held Rose to him. Her lips were as cold as his, and he attempted to warm them both by deepening their kiss. He was very disappointed when Rose drew back, and lay back down with her head resting on his chest.

He supposed that this was a nice thing to do. Lovely even. Romantic, perhaps. At least for Rose, it was. And he did strive to keep her happy these days.

"I missed you tonight," Sherlock said, before he thought to censor. Pathetic. Sentiment just bubbled through him like a fizzy drink these days, until they escaped his mouth involuntarily like a burp. He strove to explain himself, in a logical way, of course. "It would've been... preferable to have you come along... see how my speech went... have some dinner... the roast beef was tender and... juicy or something. Apparently. Or something was. Might not have been the beef..."

Rose rubbed a hand across Sherlock's chest, smiling in the dark about Sherlock's inadvertent admission and his subsequent scramble to mask the emotion with straightforward facts.

"Well, I'm here now," she said.

"There is the wedding breakfast in the morning, for those who are staying overnight. We could surprise John over baked beans on toast."

"No," Rose said softly, but firmly. "I don't think so. But you go..."

"No, Christ, no. I'm done with all this tradition. Just thought you might..."

He drifted off. Of course she wouldn't want to make an appearance at breakfast. How ridiculous—what was he thinking? But he had missed her company tonight, and after all the work she had done on his speech, he would've loved for her to have seen him delivering it.

Or perhaps not. He had insulted the vicar and bridesmaids together in one fell swoop. Probably a good thing that Rose hadn't been there.

Still, it didn't seem right that somebody who was so important to him couldn't accompany him as his plus one.

"So when's the honeymoon?" Rose asked, stifling a yawn.

"Next month, I think. They're deliberately being obtuse."

Rose didn't respond again, and Sherlock could tell by the drop in the rate of her breathing that she was falling asleep. Sherlock glanced at his watch; it was a little after midnight. He'd give them half an hour, before the temperature plummeted another couple of degrees, then they could go.


"Oh my lord. Sherlock!"

The detective's eyes snapped open and he immediately sat up. The frigid air pressing around him, and the stillness of the country field jolted him to the present.

"Christ," he murmured, before raking his fingers through his curls.

"We fell asleep," Rose said. She stood up, brushed whatever from her coat, then rubbed her arms.

"No, I didn't sleep," Sherlock replied groggily, as he, too, rose from their makeshift bed, his joints creaking with the cold.

"You were asleep. You were even snoring."

Sherlock stooped down to retrieve his coat. "I don't snore, Rose," he said, shaking off twigs and leaves.

"How long were we asleep for?"

Sherlock peered at his watch, then pressed a button to light the screen. "It's just before two, so you were asleep for nearly two hours."

He drew on his coat as Rose hugged herself, hopping from one foot to the other.

"God, it's freezing. It must be five degrees now."

"It's seven."

"How do you know?"

"I know these things. Come on."

Sherlock grasped Rose's hand and led her over to the fencing. Once again he raised the top wire a little for her to climb through. After hopping over the fence himself, they began to walk briskly along the narrow country road.

"Well that was..." Sherlock began, attempting to keep the chill from his voice, "… pleasant I s'pose."

"It was lovely," Rose said, her voice quivering. She struggled to keep up with the cracking pace Sherlock had set. "It's all so still. I can't believe it. Look at the stars now!"

Rose gazed upward as they walked. Sherlock didn't need to see them. He surmised he had fallen asleep while watching the last wisps of cloud drift away, revealing the huge canopy of constellations above him, before his own eyes had grown heavy.

They were approaching the avenue of trees that lined the path to the reception.

"It's well and truly over," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he gazed in the direction of the darkened hall. His breath frosted in the air and they stopped at the end of the path.

"I was actually on my way up to sneak a look through the windows, when you came out. I wanted to see if you were waltzing, but I think I missed that, going by the loud pop music I heard coming from the hall."

"We didn't end up waltzing... the rest of the bridal party... not on the dancefloor anyway." Sherlock then feigned a cough, and cleared his throat. He wasn't sure why the memory of rehearsing the waltz with the maid of honour had made him feel guilty in that moment.

"Oh, that's a shame," Rose replied, seeming not to notice Sherlock's remark, nor his nervous cough.

A thought struck Sherlock—a perfect way to end the evening. Although at two o'clock in the morning, he was rather pushing it to call it an evening.

"Rose, I have an idea. Come on!"

A few minutes later, Rose found herself nervously glancing about as Sherlock crouched in front of her, picking the lock of the door to the reception hall. She was reminded of the time he had enthusiastically broken into the empty house across the street from her—the house Sherlock now owned after winning it in a Poker match against the Clarence House Cannibal.

There was a click, then a snap, and finally a delighted whisper of a "Yes!" from the detective-genius.

"Come on, Rose."

Sherlock pushed on the door, and held it open for his reluctant partner-in-crime. He then fished out a penlight from his coat pocket, and told Rose to stay by the door once he'd closed it after them. Rose watched as the tiny light from Sherlock's torch danced ahead in the darkness. The detective crossed the floor toward a mass of black objects to the right.

Rose sighed and shivered. She rubbed at her ears which were aching from the cold. The room may have been heated earlier, she thought, but there was now a chill in the air. Just what was Sherlock up to?

Suddenly the room was brightened by two pulses of light emitted from the ceiling above the place Sherlock had disappeared. They swivelled and projected into the centre of the room, and reflected off a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. The room became a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours.

Laughter bubbled up in Rose's throat, but she dared not make a sound.

The room was almost as vast and clear of furniture as it had been when Sherlock had brought her here the day they were scouting the location as a potential reception venue. Rose could see pedestals, some of which held bouquets of flowers and others that supported candelabra.

It must've been beautiful when it was all set up for dining, Rose thought, and stunning if the candles were lit during the bridal waltz. She wondered from which end Sherlock had delivered his never-ending speech, and had solved a potential murder case. Probably at the spot where he is now, she thought, recalling the layout Sherlock had designed in cardboard months ago.

"I'd light the candles," Sherlock said, as if reading Rose's mind, "but there are too many. So we'll have to make do with the strobe lights."

He busily searched for something behind what Rose assumed was the DJ's box, briefly glancing at Rose as he did so. Rose returned Sherlock's quick smile with one of her own, then she silently made her way toward him.

"No, stay where you are," Sherlock gently commanded her. He finally found the cable he was looking for, and plugged one end into his phone.

Rose now had an idea about what his plans were, and she suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed standing in the middle of an empty dancefloor, at two in the morning, in the venue of a wedding reception long finished.

Sherlock stepped down from the DJ's podium as the first bars of Waltz for Mary and John by Sherlock Holmes drifted down from the speakers mounted on the corners of the ceiling. A tiny smile graced his lips as he extended a hand to Rose.

"I think you know this one," he said smoothly.

Rose remained frozen to the spot. They were going to do this here, now?

"If you would do me the honour," Sherlock bid her, in the patience and manner of a man well-practiced at enticing shy wall-flowers to the dancefloor in another century.

Rose took his hand and was almost swept off her feet.

Unlike the lessons in his flat, this time Sherlock remained silent as they glided around the dancefloor. There were no corrections, no impatient tutting or a disapproving shake of his head. Sherlock remained perfectly composed, his eyes glistening with affection and a smile playing on his lips, as he directed Rose around the floor.

Rose's eyes remained firmly locked on Sherlock's. She was far too tired to concentrate on the steps, which had the effect of working in her favour. She let Sherlock lead with small gestures here and there—a tiny press of his hand against her left shoulder-blade, or a push forward against her palm. Rose couldn't believe she was slow waltzing with the grace and elegance of a Regency-era aristocrat. She felt as if she were floating on air.

Sherlock's expression softened, and his smile broadened by degree. Creases appeared in the corners of his eyes, as they often did when his smile was genuine. He had saved the last dance for Rose. He hadn't left the wedding early after all. He had merely been searching for his dance partner.

He drew Rose in just a little closer so that his hand came to rest in the middle of her back. Less formal, more intimate. He dipped his head lower as the last three bars of his recorded solo violin performance floated through the air.

Their lips met on the final note. A soft brush of Rose's lips was all Sherlock allowed himself before he drew back.

Rose slowly opened her eyes, meeting Sherlock's gaze. Her pupils were dark, the irises moist. Her skin prickled in anticipation of whatever her dance partner had in store for her next, and she no longer felt the chill in the air.

"Wow," she said, her breath shuddering on the way out.

"Mmm, not bad," Sherlock replied, but his mirthful expression betrayed the nonchalance of his words. There was a certain satisfaction the detective felt for the reaction he had provoked in the woman whose previous occupation had given her expertise in the physical arousal of others. Look at her now, he thought. Pupils blown, pulse thready, and her breathing accelerated. And all because he had danced with her and had given her a whisper of a kiss. But he knew her physiological reaction was due, for the most part, to her emotional investment in him.

Rose still felt light-headed. Would she swoon now, or was that taking the period drama a little too far?

"Do you love me?" she gushed instead.

Sherlock's gaze re-sharpened. "Yes," he responded immediately.

"Then kiss me properly."

Sherlock bent his head to Rose, his lips hovering a breath away from hers. Rose had slid her arms around Sherlock's neck as his own arms banded her tight against him. He touched his mouth lightly to Rose's once more. Her lips tingled beneath his soft and achingly gentle kiss. Sherlock took his time, drawing out every response from Rose until he could feel her impatience. He increased pressure just a little, fighting his own urge to plunder. And then he was withdrawing, teasing her skin with his warm breath. He noted Rose's heavy lidded eyes and concluded she was in need of sleep more than sex.

He whispered, "And that's enough to be going on with."


Rose stretched languorously and took a moment to reorient herself. Sherlock had already left the bed; she could hear him in the bathroom. She lay on her side, curling her toes and then brought her knees up underneath the covers as Sherlock opened the door to the bathroom and strolled out. He was completely naked save for a towel wrapped around his hips. His face lit up when he saw that Rose was awake.

"Morning," he drawled, approaching the bed.

Rose rolled onto her back and hesitated to respond while she studied Sherlock's expression.

"Morning," she replied, finding him unreadable as he sat down beside her.

Sherlock leant over her, and pressed a soft kiss to Rose's lips.

He's okay then, Rose thought, her heart fluttering lightly at the warmth of his lips on hers. Rose was further reassured when Sherlock drew back, offering her a tiny smile.

They hadn't made love yet. There had been an issue upon returning to Sherlock's room after the last dance, and Rose wasn't sure what the morning would bring.

Despite the late hour, the pair had impatiently torn away at each other's clothing the minute they had entered the room. On their way to the bed, they had stumbled over Rose's overnight bag that lay in the middle of the room. They then had to stop while Rose explained just how her belongings had come to be in Sherlock's room already—a scheme devised by Rose when she was getting ready to depart London that afternoon.

"You said you were my what?" Sherlock had asked, his face bright with interest.

That Rose had outwitted whatever poor excuse for security protocols that existed at the B&B was both cause for Sherlock's admiration for his lover, and for alarm on behalf of both management and guests.

"Your personal assistant."

Rose had compiled a folder containing psychology notes and research papers to serve as a prop for "important documents", and those, together with her overnight bag, she had taken to Sherlock's B&B and had informed reception that Mr Holmes had left these in London, and that they needed to be delivered to his room. She further hinted at how angry the Consulting Detective would be should he not find these already in his room when he returned later that evening. The receptionist, who had already had a rather stressful encounter with the detective from London that morning, eagerly acquiesced Rose's request. That left Rose free to roam the village that evening unencumbered by her bag.

Sherlock's mind had kicked into gear, while his libido flagged.

"I'll have to have a word with management," he had murmured while standing in the middle of his guest room, hands on hips and completely naked.

"Not now," Rose had laughed, and grabbing his hand, she had pulled him toward the bed.

That gesture seemed to rouse Sherlock out of his Mind Palace wanderings, where scenario after scenario had presented themselves—guests could be assassinated through a bomb stowed in an overnight bag such as the one Rose had been able to leave in his room.

Rose was upon him, and Sherlock was happy to have her dominate for the moment. It wasn't until Rose had retreated from the bed and had grabbed both his and her scarves that alarm bells began to ring.

"A substitute for handcuffs," she had explained. "Shall we?"

When Sherlock had replaced his puzzled expression with one of curiosity, Rose took that as a sign of consent.

She sat next to him and fastened his scarf to the bedhead, then lifted Sherlock's right arm, drawing it above his head and began to secure his wrist. At the first feelings of restraint, Sherlock's heart rate became erratic. Adrenalin began to course through his veins, and he could feel his skin prickle.

"No."

It was one word, and it was spoken with such a definite yet calm finality that Rose immediately stopped what she was doing and looked down at Sherlock. He avoided her gaze, reached up with his free hand and loosened the loop around his wrist. Pulling himself free, he then sat up and swung his legs to the ground.

As he stood and moved way from the bed, Rose turned to him, with a query forming on her lips. When she caught sight of the now all too familiar scars marring the otherwise smooth skin on his back, it suddenly dawned on her.

"Sherlock," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

"No, it's..." he said, gesturing vaguely and turning around. "It's... um..." Sherlock raked an agitated hand through his curls and still didn't make eye contact with Rose. "It's... fine."

"I'm sorry."

Rose planted her feet on the ground and stood up, her movements slow and hesitant.

"Don't be..." he responded, his voice rough and low, as he began to pace. "It's..."

Sherlock shook his head, as if to clear it. When Rose moved toward him, he said, "I'm fine." He brushed past her and disappeared into the bathroom.

Silence engulfed Rose, and she strained to listen for any kind of sound emanating from the bathroom. She walked over to the closed door, wondering if she should ask if he was okay. Would he talk about what he had just experienced then? Or would he strive to bury whatever memories their game-playing had triggered?

"I'm fine, Rose," Sherlock said, his voice floating through the door, jolting Rose out of her thoughts. He spoke calmly and evenly, and in a low voice, as if he knew Rose was just on the other side of the door. "You should get some sleep. I'll join you soon."

Rose's stomach muscles tensed and her eyes filled with tears. She just wanted to hold him, to reassure him, to let him speak or be silent in her arms, but ultimately know that she was here for him.

"Rose. I'll be fine."

He knew she was still standing there, so she moved away and sat on the edge of the bed. When one minute turned into five, she crawled to the head of the bed, then sat there, hugging her knees, and imagining Sherlock being tortured in far away lands—wrists bound to some kind of structure while he was flogged and God only knows what else.

Twenty minutes later, she was under the covers, and thinking about tiptoeing to the bathroom to ask if Sherlock was okay. But at that moment, she heard the shower turn on, so she lay back down again.

When she finally felt Sherlock's body curl around hers, Rose realised that at some stage she had fallen asleep. She stirred lightly, with relief flooding through her as she felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her.

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock had whispered. "I'm fine."

So when Sherlock had kissed her, gazed into her eyes, and had smiled that morning, Rose's heart had lifted.

"I thought you'd sleep in longer," he said.

"What time is it?" Rose asked.

"Just before ten. I've ordered you breakfast, but it won't arrive until eleven."

"Okay."

Rose was still unsure, and she studied Sherlock's eyes in silence as he straightened up.

He remained by her side and said, as if reading her thoughts again, "I'm fine, and I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"I don't need a therapist, Rose."

"I'm not being your therapist. I'm your..."

She paused, not sure of her 'official' title when it came to her relationship with Sherlock.

"Girlfriend," Sherlock said, finishing her sentence for her. His eyes glistened, and a warm smile slowly grew on his face.

Rose's heart stuttered, and she returned his smile. Sherlock slowly lowered himself toward her again, and Rose reached up to cup his cheek.

"Which means I care for you," she whispered.

"I know."

Rose's eyes fluttered shut as Sherlock's mouth closed over hers. Her skin tingled all over at the initial sweetness of his kiss and her lips parted in surrender.

Sherlock drew back again, and hovered a whisper away from her lips.

"We have an hour until breakfast," he murmured. "What shall we—"

Three sharp raps sounded on the door, accompanied by a low, gruff, "Room service!"

Sherlock knitted his brows together and straightened up.

"I said eleven, not ten," he huffed. "And I only called five minutes ago."

He stood, and strode over to the chair upon which his dressing gown was draped. He let the towel drop to the ground, then pulled his robe around him.

"That was quick then. What did you order me?" Rose asked, arching an eyebrow. "Jam on toast?"

Sherlock tutted and waved a hand toward Rose.

"Make yourself look decent," he chided, then he waited while Rose pulled the quilt up to her armpits. She had slept completely naked, not having brought along any sleepwear.

"No, that won't do," Sherlock remarked, thinking that Rose, with her tousled hair, and bare shoulders, still looked like she had been having sex only moments before.

He quickly grabbed at her overnight bag, opened it and rummaged inside.

"What do you have?" he asked, frowning.

"Just a dressing gown," she replied, throwing the quilt from herself, and making her way over to Sherlock. "I could just hide in the bathroom."

"No, it's fine."

He drew out Rose's familiar black dressing gown for her as three more raps resonated through the door.

"A bit rude," Sherlock remarked.

He headed over to the door, and waited for Rose to dress and slip beneath the covers again, his hand holding the doorknob. Fixing Rose with a broad, happy grin he turned the door handle. He quickly rearranged his expression so he could duly scold the impatient room service delivery person.

Upon opening the door, Sherlock was confronted with a chuckling John Watson.

"And you call yourself a detective," the groom laughed, clearly amused at the success of his silly ruse. "You didn't think I'd really let you get out of attending the wedding breakfast." John brushed past the stunned detective and strolled into the room, saying, "Come on Sherlock Holmes, put your trou—"

All air was sucked from the room, and the scene was frozen in time to be etched in the memories of the three players forever.

John and Rose locked eyes, and Sherlock remained immobile and silent by the door.

"Hello, John," Rose said as politely as she could under the circumstances.

John Watson's mouth snapped shut, and Sherlock bowed his head and exhaled.

John's eyes flicked between the woman he knew as a prostitute, and the familiar scarf belonging to Sherlock Holmes that was now tied to the bedhead.

"Holy fuck," he murmured, then he clenched his jaw, about-faced, and strode determinedly from the room.

.